The Tunnel of Sighs is empty when the grandfather arrives. None of his old friends are there. Some of them are dead. Some are locked up. Many have moved abroad. The only trace of human life is a couple of empty beer cans lined up in a neat row in front of the green rubbish bin. The grandfather who is a father sits down on a bench and catches his breath. He looks out at the water. He squints down at his ringing phone and moves it to and from his face to try and work out who is calling. He drops it back into his inner pocket when he sees it’s his son. He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, everything is black.
* * *
They split up on the metro; the mother stands with the one-year-old, the father takes the four-year-old. They find an empty seat and the father pulls the children’s book out of his backpack. It’s the story about an old man who buys an apple from a dishonest fruit seller, who gives him a plastic apple instead of the nice shiny apple in the seller’s garden. The old man doesn’t notice a thing, and he goes home and places the plastic apple on his windowsill to ripen. A parrot knocks the apple off the windowsill and it lands on the grandmother, whose scream scares the cat up the tree, the car drives into the fruit seller’s fence, Bertil grabs the nice shiny apple and hands it to the young lady, the thief takes the apple from the young lady, he bumps into the head teacher, the apple flies through the window and lands in the hand of the fireman, who is on his way to help the cat down from the tree. The fireman unfolds the ladder, his colleague climbs the tree, but in order to rescue the cat he has to put the apple to one side. He puts it on the same windowsill where the plastic apple once was, and the old man discovers the real apple and thinks that the plastic apple has ripened. The last image in the book is an overview of the town. The father is happy that the four-year-old listened so nicely to the story. The train soon pulls into Mariatorget, and from there it isn’t much further to T-Centralen. Now for the showpiece. The father starts pointing to the letters visible in the town. What does this say? Which letter is this? The four-year-old says the letters. Wow, only four years old and you know all the letters, says the father. He is enjoying the glances from the people around him. Or . . . Has anyone noticed? He looks around. Everyone is wearing headphones. No one looks up from their screen. The only person who has reacted is his girlfriend, who is staring at him from over by the doors with a look of disgust. The father doesn’t give in. He shows the four-year-old that T A X I spells taxi and B A R B E R spells barber. Then he points to the school building. What are these letters? S. Exactly. C H. Yes. O O L. Mmm. What does that spell? The four-year-old thinks. S, says the father. Schooo. Scoop? says the four-year-old. Almost. Schooo, says the father. Scooter? says the four-year-old. Oh, you’re so close now, says the father. Schooooooo . . . Scooby-Doo? says the four-year-old. The father gives up. He glances over at the girlfriend and smiles. She turns to look out of the window. The one-year-old must have fallen asleep, because she has her white ear buds in. Are we going to see Grandpa today? the four-year-old asks. Maybe, says the father. We’ll see.
* * *
A tourist who just wants to be a tourist is doing her very best to filter out everything that sullies the town. She was here once before, in the mid-eighties, back when she worked in finance. She stayed at a luxury hotel on Birger Jarlsgatan and her employer paid for her food and alcohol, they had meetings all day, there wasn’t much time for sightseeing, but on the last morning, before their pre-booked taxi came to pick them up, she went for a walk through the city. It was so beautiful. The water was glittering. The people were glowing. Even the rough sleepers looked fresh. Though were there any rough sleepers back then? She racks her brain. No. There were friendly hippy collectives playing guitar, there were Christian groups offering free cups of coffee, there were South Americans in traditional dress playing the panpipes. But she can’t remember any rough sleepers, no beggars, no poverty at all. For several years, she lived between capitals; she had a bag whose contents only ever changed when she stopped off at home between trips. She had lived there for almost two years and still hadn’t bought any pans. She worked between eighty and a hundred hours a week. That’s at least sixty hours too many, her mother said. You need to take a break. Breathe. Go on holiday. See your friends. Dance. Start a family. Spend some time with me. Don’t worry, she said. I’m young. I’ve got time. Then her mother got leukaemia, and the daughter went home to take care of her. The mother died in February 1993, and the daughter started studying to become a nurse that autumn. Her real specialism was children and young people, but she got her first job in an old people’s home with incredible views, and she liked it so much that she stayed.
Every day, she said good morning to the old people on her corridor, she knocked on doors and opened curtains, she aired out the smell of pee and changed the sheets, she convinced them to come down to the breakfast room for a cup of tea, and once they were down there she always tried to get them to tell her about the war years, about how it felt to attack the Nazis in Dieppe in 1942, or hold the Japanese in prison camps in 1943, or what Europe was like in 1948 when, against their fathers’ wishes, they ran away and started working for the Red Cross. But they all seemed to have lived their lives at a safe distance from the heart of the action. On 7 May 1945, they hadn’t gone down to the square to celebrate the end of the war, because they knew there would be so many people around. There was plenty of talk about the first moon landing, but on 20 July 1969, one of them had had a slot in the laundry room and another had an out-of-town cousin to stay. Several were so confused that they barely remembered the names of their siblings, and others preferred to talk about the present than the past. They spoke about grandchildren who had taken part in dance contests, sons who were thinking of moving abroad, immigrants who came over here to build mosques and live on benefits. My mother immigrated to this country, said the woman who no longer had a mother. She left her political ideals behind for a career as a parking attendant. She took three days off sick in twenty years, and then she died of leukaemia. Poor her, said James, eighty-four. There are always exceptions, said Thelma, ninety-one. Very few immigrants are as hardworking as your mother, said Helen, eighty-nine. And yet she stayed at the old people’s home, soon becoming the unofficial head of IT, not because she knew much about computers, but because she was the only one who dared change the toner in the photocopier. There were rumours that she had even managed to print double-sided once. On two occasions, she had helped the ward manager to eject an unruly USB stick from his computer. After that, she was the person all the old people came to whenever they had trouble with the internet. Her patience was endless. She calmly explained to Steve, eighty-two, that he couldn’t fix his wireless network by unplugging the router and blowing on the plug; she never got angry when Betty, ninety-two, tried to play a DVD by pushing it into the air vent on the projector in the lounge. She helped Earl, ninety-one, to recover his hard drive from a backup when he accidentally poured milk onto his computer. She worked there until she retired, and now she suddenly has an infinite amount of time on her hands. The advantage of not having any children or grandchildren is that she is free to travel the world and discover the places she has been before, but barely remembers. The downside is that she doesn’t have anyone to share the pictures with. If she did have children, she would have called them now and told them that the city she is in is the same, but different. The buildings are still here, the skies still wide, the water glittering. But the people have changed. The people here look the same as in Copenhagen, Brussels, Paris, New York or Prague. Everything that made the place unique is gone. Nothing specific remains. Or, rather, the only specific things are the tourist shops selling blue-and-yellow t-shirts with 100% SWEDISH printed on them, plastic Viking helmets and red wooden horses of varying sizes. Behind a stand draped in red flags, there are two men in Santa hats selling candy canes even though Christmas is still over a month away. Tourists stand on the bridge, looking down into the waters of Strömmen. They take pictures of one another in front of the parli
ament building. They point to the wonderful stretches of water. She doesn’t take any pictures. Instead, she turns right and follows the bay towards City Hall. Things are calmer here. No tourists. No Santas. Just her and the surging water and a small staircase leading down to the edge of the dock. She spots him from a distance. He is sitting on a park bench in front of the shuttered ice-cream kiosk. Black coat. Bright white trainers. A blue bag hanging from his wrist. She spots the beer cans and decides that he must be drunk. Then she moves closer and comes to the conclusion that the beer cans are too far away to be his, he is also too well dressed and clean-shaven to be drinking beer on a park bench at this time of day. He’s probably just sleeping. Then he opens his eyes and screams. He gets up and staggers towards the water’s edge. She rushes over and grabs him with just a few metres to spare.
* * *
The family gets up and leaves the train at T-Centralen. The mother wants to see an exhibition about future bodies at Kulturhuset; the one-year-old can crawl around in the children’s library, and the four-year-old has been promised some play time with wooden blocks. There is at least an hour’s wait for the children’s library, so they take a number, eat some fruit and head up to the art exhibition. In a glass box, there are thirty or so veined, erect and incredibly lifelike penises. On the information label, it says that the penises are also fully functioning flutes. Willy flutes! the father says. Crazy, huh? The four-year-old shrugs. Another artwork consists of a room full of mirrors and lighting effects. Wow, the four-year-old whispers, refusing to leave.
The father keeps an eye on his phone the whole time. He dials his father’s Swedish number at regular intervals. Sometimes, his call is rejected. Sometimes, no one answers. Honey, says the girlfriend. Forget about him now. If he wants to see us, he can ring. We can’t let him dictate our entire day.
The son forgets about him. He tries to spend some quality time with his family. He tries not to check his phone and wonder what could have happened. They go for coffee after the exhibition, and then it is their turn to go into the children’s library. They leave their shoes in small compartments by the door. The mother hangs her coat on one of the children’s hooks. The father keeps his down jacket on. He doesn’t trust the other parents. Anyone could take his jacket if he leaves it here. It makes no difference that there are staff by the entrance. They have no idea whose coat is whose. The mother glances at him but says nothing. The one-year-old crawls around among the baby books, the four-year-old builds a wall and then a cow transporter using the wooden blocks. Take a break now, says the mother. No, it’s fine, says the father. Yes, love, I’m serious. Go down to the main library. Borrow some books. Work on your ‘tight five’. Meditate. Do whatever you want to do, but try to recharge. No, I’d actually rather be here, says the father. With my family. For God’s sake, whispers the mother. I know exactly what’ll happen if you stay here. You’ll get annoyed that everyone but you got to do what they wanted, and then you’ll be in a mood for the rest of the day because you’re not grown up enough to be able to satisfy your own bloody needs. So go. Now. I’ll watch the kids. He gets up and leaves the children’s library. Daddy! the four-year-old shouts. The father smiles and says he’ll be back soon. He isn’t sure whether he finds it nice or disturbing that his daughter gets so upset when he leaves.
He heads down to the main library. He picks out a few books and slumps into an armchair by the window. He reads the first few pages of a celebrated contemporary American novel. He reads half of the foreword to a French short-story collection. Then he gets an idea for a joke, jots it down in his phone and falls asleep. He wakes to his phone vibrating and feels happier than he cares to admit. Where are you? says a voice that doesn’t belong to his father. Taking a break, he says. Like you told me to. You’ve been gone for an hour and ten minutes, says his girlfriend. Sorry, he says, getting up. Are there any more wet wipes in the buggy? she asks. I’ll get them, he says. He takes the escalator up to the third floor. He glances at his phone. He sends a message to the family group. Anyone heard from Dad? The sister replies immediately: We were meant to meet for lunch today but I got held up. He seemed fine. The mother: Haven’t spoken, haven’t heard a thing.
The son who is a father leaves the escalator and tries one last time. The call goes through. The father answers. His voice is transformed. He sounds almost . . . happy? There are footsteps in the background. What are you doing? the son asks. I’m in town, says the father. Out for a walk. A walk? says the son. On your own? With a friend, says the father. A friend? says the son. Which friend? A friend, says the father. You don’t know her. I’ll call you later.
The father hangs up. The son is left staring at the phone in his hand. A friend? His father doesn’t have any friends. He hasn’t had any friends since the police carried out a raid down by the Tunnel of Sighs and his mother made him promise never to go down there again.
* * *
A father who is a grandfather opens his eyes. The world is black. He’s had a heart attack. He’s had a brain haemorrhage. Someone has sneaked into his brain and snipped his optic nerve. He is both living dead and almost-dead dead. He hears voices. Children laughing. A ball bouncing. Cars. Several cars. A bus pulls in and lowers to the pavement with a hiss. He gets up from the park bench, fumbling in the darkness, hears his own voice echo out across the water. Someone takes hold of his wrist, leads him back to the bench and slaps his face. Can you hear me? she asks in English. Yes, he replies. Did you take something? she says. No, he says. I just fell asleep. She doesn’t reply. The woman disappears. She must have stood up and left. Just like all the others. Then he hears a lighter and catches the scent of a cigarette. She’s still there. She hasn’t left him. I don’t sleep much, he says. I can see that, she says. There is something wrong with my eyes, he says. Try opening them, she says. He opens his eyes. He blinks. He realises he is sitting upright, which is a good sign, since dead people tend to fall over. A cold sweat is also good, given that dead people tend to lack that kind of sensation. The blackness mixes with bright spots, small explosions at first, then longer lines, as if there are several horizons being illuminated one by one. The world returns, the sunlight tearing into his eyes, and everything is still there, the trees, the houses, the benches, the cars and the old woman smoking beside him. Does that feel better? He nods. She doesn’t look like he imagined. Her voice is more beautiful than her face. But it doesn’t matter, because she is still there.
* * *
The father who was once a son walks round and round, turn after turn, in a revolving door on the ground floor of Kulturhuset. The four-year-old is beside him, and she is laughing. We’re circusing! she shouts, waving to the people who are trying and failing to get through the door currently being blocked by the father, the four-year-old and the one-year-old, in a buggy covered in banana. The tyres are unevenly inflated, the one-year-old’s bib is covered in dried-on mucus, there are water-damaged picture books in the pocket beneath, along with a cable and a padlock, some rotten mandarin skin, mismatched gloves, forgotten spare socks, a pump for the tyre that loses air, an umbrella, a collection of random stones that the four-year-old has decided to pick up, and a programme from the exhibition they’ve just seen. A friend, the father mumbles. He doesn’t have any friends. His daughter looks up at him. He stops speaking. They leave the revolving door. He rummages through the nappy bag, which contains absolutely everything but tissues. The father wipes away the one-year-old’s snot with a wet wipe, the son is unhappy about the chill, and the father thinks back to when he and the girlfriend were a vibrant young couple, they bounced between exhibitions, cafés, dinners and parties, every day held so many possibilities, you went out in the morning and might go home at night. They were gazelles, but now they’re diplodocuses; they were jet skis, but now they’re oil tankers, it takes them a quarter of an hour to change course. They still go to nice cafés, but only to be told that unfortunately they’ll have to leave the buggy outside and there aren’t any high chai
rs. This is why the father suggests they have lunch at Kafé Panorama, where the employees are unfriendly towards one another in the kind of beautiful way you only ever see between family members. The views are magical. Refills are free. The salad buffet is great. Or perfectly decent, at the very least. And they have that sweet cornbread that the one-year-old loves. There’s nothing wrong with the prices either, says the father. But the mother has eaten there plenty of times and has never thought it was that good. Okay, says the father. What about Teaterbaren? the mother suggests. The tablecloths there are white and the prices high. The father replies that he doesn’t really fancy it. That Asian place, then? The family walks past the restaurant on the ground floor. The mother mumbles her way through the menu. The father can tell she’s not happy, there are no gluten-free vegetarian options, or rather there are two, but when she asks at the counter she finds out that both contain dairy products. They leave Kulturhuset. They stand outside in the biting wind. You don’t eat lactose now? asks the father. I’d prefer not to, says the mother. Do you have a problem with that? Not at all, says the father. I want a hotdog, says the four-year-old. So where are we going? says the father. Ketchup and hotdog, says the four-year-old. Don’t know, what do you think? says the mother. Hotdog hotdog hotdog, says the daughter. Jackie was talking about some vegan place in Kungsholmen, says the mother, taking out her phone. HOTDOG, says the four-year-old. The father stands quietly, thinking that with a little bit of planning this kind of situation would never happen. When he was young, his mother used to make sandwiches, pack a bottle of juice and some apples, and that was lunch. He and the children could eat anything. Give us some warm hotdogs and we’re happy. A couple of cheeseburgers from McDonald’s. We’ll eat them standing up and then we can focus on something else. But instead they have to wait until the mother has found the address of the vegan place. They start their walk towards Kungsholmen, taking Klarabergsgatan. They pass Systembolaget, where several customers are trying in vain to talk their way in to buy booze, even though it’s two minutes past three on a Saturday and the shop has already closed. They pass the twenty-four-hour pharmacy, they cross the bridge over Vasagatan, they pass the line of good taxis and the line of evil taxis. On their way over the next bridge, the father remembers the night they walked over here when they first fell in love, when they decided that they wanted to throw something into the water. They found a pile of paving stones and each threw in three, every slab representing a part of their personality that they wanted to get rid of. She dropped a Fear of Planning paving stone, a Shame stone and a Saying Sorry Even Though You Haven’t Done Anything Wrong stone. He dropped a Self-Criticism stone and a Bearing a Grudge stone. As he stood there with his last paving slab, he couldn’t decide what he wanted to throw away. Maybe you could get rid of some of your need to be in control, she said. I don’t have a need to be in control, he said. Or, I mean, my need to be in control isn’t any worse than anyone else’s. Anyway, if I do have a certain need to be in control, that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, I would be nowhere without my need to be in control, it’s thanks to my need to be in control that I get things done. Okay, she said. Relax. Get rid of something else instead. He held the heavy square slab in his hand. The water glittered in the dawn light. He dubbed the paving stone Perfectionism and hurled it down into the water. They headed home. Aren’t Perfectionism and a Need to be in Control two sides of the same coin? she asked. Not for me, he said. Seven years later, they are crossing the same bridge with their two children. They don’t say a word to one another. They turn right. They still don’t speak. Are we having hotdogs? the four-year-old asks. They are approaching the vegan restaurant. The lighting is muted, the tables dark brown, the walls clad in fabric trees. The father regrets ever doubting his girlfriend. He thinks how lucky he is that she exists. Without her, he would turn into his father. He would eat three-day-old prawn salad just because it’s going cheap. He would walk around in ten-year-old clothes. His phone would be an antique, with a battery that lasted twenty minutes. (Friend? What friend? Who is this friend? And why did he sound so happy?) Looks nice, doesn’t it? says his girlfriend. It really does, he replies. Do they have hotdogs? the daughter asks. I’m sure they do, honey, the mother says. And ketchup? We’ll go in and investigate, says the father. He tries the door handle. It’s locked. The café is open on weekdays, ten ’til five. The four-year-old starts to cry. The one-year-old starts to cry because the four-year-old is crying. A blue bendy bus appears. The father has an urge to let go of the buggy, jump onto the bus and disappear. Instead, he lets go of the buggy, heads into the nearest 7-Eleven, buys three hotdogs, two for the children and one for himself, and wolfs down his by the counter to avoid his girlfriend’s looks. The girl behind the counter stares at him. These are for my kids, he says. She nods.
The Family Clause Page 11
